"Avtokrator!" One of the Varangians knelt hurriedly at his side. The man's broad, blond face was marked by worry. The Northman slid his arm under the Emperor's and lifted gently. Heraclius felt his face flush with embarrassment. He was a tall, strong man- he should not need any help standing or getting off a horse. Others of the Imperial Guard clustered around him, facing outward with hands on their weapons. Heraclius stood, feeling the weakness in his right leg. He tried to stand on his own, but fierce pain ripped through his feet and lower legs, and he had to take the blond Northman's arm again.
"Let's go inside," he gasped, fighting to keep upright. "I need to take off my boots."
The Varangians began moving, forming a circle around him. The blond man and two others supported the Emperor to the ironbound door of the tower. The soldiers assigned to the tower parted- at first slowly, but then quickly when the purple cloak and golden armor of the Emperor were seen. Heraclius ducked through the door and felt himself lifted up and carried bodily up a wide flight of stairs. At the top, a vaulted hallway ran deeper into the tower. More soldiers, some of them with badges of rank, parted before the Imperials. They turned through a door, the blond Northman turning sideways to carry the Emperor through in his arms. The room beyond was small, with a domed roof and a fire in a grate on the inner wall. There was a desk and a low chair. A surprised man with short-cropped white hair looked up from where he had been writing at the desk.
The two lead guardsmen grasped the man by the shoulders and arms and threw him out into the hallway. The man shouted in anger and fear, but the other guardsmen ran him off. The others took up guard positions outside the door. The quills and ink blocks and paper on the desk were brushed off, clattering to the floor. The blond man lowered Heraclius onto the tabletop.
"Ahhhhh!" With the pressure relieved from his feet and legs, there was a sudden blessed ebbing of pain. Heraclius lay back on the table in relief. Above him, he saw that the roof of the chamber was dark with soot.
"What has happened?" A basso shout echoed in the passageway. Heraclius summoned enough energy to grin a little. His brother had heard something dire had befallen the Emperor and was quick on the wing to hunt it down. "Where is my brother?"
Heraclius levered himself up on one elbow. He waved a hand weakly at the Northman who was still at his side. "Take off my boots," The Emperor hissed. "They feel too tight."
The Northman nodded and began tugging at the laces of the high red boots.
"Brother!" Theodore stormed into the room, his own equites in full armor at his back. The Varangians bristled and moved to block the door. Theodore pulled up short, confronted by the half-drawn swords of four burly men in heavy mail. The Prince's hand moved reflexively to the hilt of his own spatha, but the growl from the Northmen brought him up short. For a moment the Prince bristled and locked gazes with the captain of the Varangians. The captain, quite sure of his place and the long, bloody history of the Imperial Guard, gave a wintry smile and stepped closer to Theodore. The Prince gave ground. Even the brother of the Emperor did not command the Varangians, particularly when their fur was ruffled. Their captain, a squat, thickly muscled black-haired veteran with a poxscarred face was notorious for his personal loyalty to the Emperor and his rough methods. Theodore had tried to befriend him before and had been coldly rebuffed.
"Brother," Theodore called, "are you well? What happened?"
"Be calm, Theo, I am: ayyy!" Heraclius flinched as the blond Northman tugged one of the laces of his boots free. It dragged in the copper grommets, pulling tight for a moment. The Emperor swayed and then lay back down on the table again. The sooty roof seemed very distant compared to the pain that rippled up his legs and into his arms. "Cut them: cut them off," he managed to blurt out.
The blond Northman frowned and looked to his captain for guidance. The captain nodded, keeping most of his attention on the Prince, who was still poised in the doorway. The blond man pulled a curved knife from a wooden sheath on his belt and carefully slipped the needlelike tip under the laces. The silk cords parted easily, and in a moment the boots had been reduced to brightly colored strips. Heraclius felt like his legs had been released from iron clamps. He breathed easily, almost normally, and was giddy with release. "Ah- I can think! Centurion Rufio, send my brother in."
Theodore bent at his brother's side, his face a mask of concern. Heraclius took his shoulder and sat up again. Now, with the pinching boots gone, he felt almost normal. His feet were still a little numb, though. He looked down and was shocked to see that his toes and feet were unexpectedly swollen.
"What is this?" Heraclius grimaced in disgust. Each foot was a pale gray color and puffy. No wonder he had nearly fainted trying to walk in boots. He felt queasy seeing that the skin was becoming stretched and almost glassy around the ankles.
"I don't know," Theodore said slowly, his eyes lingering on his brother's feet. "I should send for a physician immediately! There is one I trust among my followers. He studied in Egypt and knows many medicinal arts. Pray, brother, let me send for him."
Before Heraclius could speak, the Varangian captain shook his head curtly. "The Emperor has his own physicians, Prince. One of my men will fetch them from the baggage train." Rufio's voice was a gravelly rumble, long ruined by screaming orders over the din of battle. "No other man will tend to the person of the Emperor save them."
Theodore glared back at the Northman, but Rufio's face was an icy crag, admitting no other counsel to its discussions. Heraclius lay back again and stared at the ceiling, ignoring his brother's questioning look. In comparison to the evil-looking cast to his lower legs, the soot-blackened bricks seemed a welcome sight.
"So be it," Theodore said petulantly. "I will see to getting the army past the gate, then." The Prince stalked out without saying anything to his brother, but Heraclius did not notice; he was too busy trying to calm his breathing. His heart had begun to race as his mind began to catalog the ailments and diseases that might be afflicting him. He felt faint again and chided himself for letting his imagination run out of control. Someone leaned over his legs, and Heraclius peered over his stomach. It was Rufio and one of the other veterans. They were muttering to one another.
"Avtokrator," Rufio said presently, turning to face the Emperor. "We will bring you a chair on poles so that we can carry you to a better room. It will only be a moment."
Heraclius nodded and folded his hands on his chest, resigned to waiting.
A single candle glowed, marking a small yellow circle in darkness. Heraclius could hear the sound of rushing water somewhere, perhaps through a window. He lay in a soft bed, covered by many quilts. Somewhere nearby, but beyond a door or a hanging, he could hear people arguing. He thought it was his brother and the Emperor Galen- but that was impossible: The Western Emperor had departed their company weeks ago. His legs still felt numb, but he was very tired, and he slept.
Galen had been standing at the base of a loading ramp, shading his eyes from the glare off the water in the harbor at Seleucia Piera. Dozens of great naves onerariae were tied to the quays, filling with men and supplies and wagons and mules as the Legions of the Western Empire had been preparing to depart from the East. Heraclius had been on his horse, watching in ill-disguised envy as the Western troops bustled about in practiced efficiency, seeing to the thousands of details attendant on their voyage. The huge, dark ships were filling in a steady, unhurried stream. His own army was still snarled up on the roads leading into Antioch. It would take weeks for them to get straightened out, then more weeks while they exhausted themselves in sport in the city.